Chapter 4 #3
“It’s the only place to take a walk over here.” He turns to watch the water lap up the rocky shore. I’m surprised it’s not frozen, but it surely will be by morning. Snow is finally collecting on the ground, and it’s no match for my sneakers. I left my boots in the room.
We walk along the docks, and though most of the boats are gone for the season, the water itself is beautiful enough on its own. The view is stunning. There’s a mountain in the distance, and with the lights gleaming in the water.
“A boat would be nice,” I say randomly, hoping to strike up a positive conversation.
“I’m not really a boat guy,” Dean mutters. Of course he’s not a boat guy. I want to ask him what kind of guy he is, but I keep my mouth shut. I pick up a stray pebble and toss it into the water.
“What’s wrong with boats?” I decide to ask instead.
“Nothing’s wrong with boats. I’m just not a boat guy. Never have been.” He says. “It’s like golf. You either like golf, or you hate it. I’ve never been about that kind of thing.”
“What about fishing?” I ask as we stop, reaching the edge of the dock.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who likes fishing?”
“Honestly, you don’t look like you like much of anything,” I say frankly.
“I like things. Just not fishing or boats,” He says, gazing out across the harbor.
“Or golf, apparently,” I snicker. “Well, I like boats. And I wish I had a big, fancy one,” I say, stretching my arms and hands out to gesture how big my future, potential boat would be.
“That’s nice,” He says to placate me, and I go on describing my boat.
“It’s a yacht, actually. With a full service bar and hot, shirtless guys to serve me champagne.”
“Why do they have to be shirtless?” Dean asks, frowning.
“Because it’s a fantasy.” I laugh. “Do you not have those either?”
“No. I hate fantasies, and all things joyful. I’m the grinch of human existence.” He says, the sarcasm oozing from his voice. “Of course, I have fantasies.” He says normally.
“What’s your biggest non-sexual fantasy?” I ask.
“Non-sexual? Well, there goes like 85% of them.” He smirks. “Kidding.”
“Well?”
“Living in a big house. At the top of a hill. With a big, black dog that doesn’t bark at passing cars.” He contemplates.
“You mean to tell me, your biggest fantasy of all time is to have a pet and live in a house?” I laugh. “That’s like, a completely average, normal aspiration.”
“Well, what’s yours then?”
“I want to be a princess. Like a literal, actual princess who wears a tiara and has a big closet full of ball gowns and goes to finishing school and marries a prince. I’m secretly waiting for my parents to tell me they’re not actually dentists, but next in line for the royal throne.”
“You have the fantasies of a six-year-old,” Dean remarks, but he gives me a smile of approval anyway.
“Well, that’s my biggest non-sexual fantasy, anyway.” I smile softly, and turn around, heading the other way on the dock.
“What’s your biggest sexual fantasy?” Dean asks.
“All of the previous fantasy, but the prince has a big dick,” I admit snarkily, laughing.
“Totally fair,” He pauses. “I’m sorry for being an ass to you. You’re not as bad as you’re cracked up to be.”
“Thanks. I try not to precede my reputation.” I give a harsh laugh.
“I’m serious. I’m sorry. Do you want to get some dinner?” Dean asks me suddenly.
“You’re asking me to dinner?” I’m caught off guard. I can’t believe he’d want to eat another meal with me today.
“Not to dinner. For dinner.” He clarifies. “Not like—”
“Yeah,” I agree with his thought. “Not like anything.”
“Just food,” He reiterates.
“Just food,” I agree again, but something tells me this is not just food. This is a truce.
I nod, and we walk side by side, nearly shoulder to shoulder, towards the resort inn. The path is snowy, and both pairs of my socks are getting soaking wet. I try not to let it bother me, but I know my toes will surely be frozen the rest of the night.
By the time we reach the mansion, the restaurant is bustling with people.
The restaurant is as coordinated as the rest of the inn, complete with velvet booths, marble table tops and daisies in vases that face a main stage.
We’re seated in a back corner by a foggy window, where snow has built up on the windowsill.
Despite being in a corner, we can see a sliver of the stage.
Instead of stuffing it into a ball like I usually do, I lay my coat nicely on the booth bench where we’re nestled.
I sit on the left; Dean sits on the right.
Janine the waitress makes her rounds, where Dean orders us two glasses of red wine.
When she returns, we both order modest meals.
I organize my silverware, wiping off water stains from my knife.
“Can I ask you something?” Dean sips his red wine, his brown hair backlit by the stage lights. A golden aura floats across his face.
“What?” I’m reluctant because I know that tone of voice—it’s about to be a question I don’t want to answer.
“It’s about Andy.”
Of course, it’s about Andy.
It’s always about Andy.
“What about Andy?” I lean my face on my hand, wondering what he could possibly want to know. I swirl the wine in my glass before taking a small sip.
“What was it like being his muse?” Dean swallows. “You know, with his album and everything.”
I almost choke on my wine, my breath catching in my throat.
The album, of course. There’s only one album. The one Andy named after me, and the one that got him famous. The one that has the song about how much he loves me. The album I have several copies of because I couldn’t bear to sell or get rid of them. The album that won the GRAMMY.
“It wasn’t like being a muse at all. I was only myself,” I answer. “I didn’t know I was his muse until the album was named.”
“I listened to it for the first time a few hours ago,” Dean confesses. “Before I went on the walk.”
“So?” I don’t want to have this conversation with Dean because I know where it’s going.
“He really loved you,” Dean decides. “You were his true love.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.”
We stare at each other and I’m turning cold. I don’t need anyone to tell me how much Andy loved me, because for fuck’s sake, I was married to him. I already knew about the whole album dedicated to me.
“I think I prefer Jeff Buckley,” Dean remarks, sipping his wine. “He made the whole dying at a young age thing way more tragic.”
I blurt out a laugh. It’s a genuine one.
“Thank fucking god. I couldn’t deal with another Andy McKinney megafan.”
Andy’s album generated a cult following that followed him well into the dark, past his death, into the afterlife.
While I was grateful his music impacted so many, sometimes I just wanted to visit his grave in peace without it cluttered with memorabilia or not having questions about my personal life plastered over the media.
“No, not me, sorry,” Dean apologizes.
“Careful, he might hear you,” I laugh, miming searching for an imaginary ghost.
“Do you ever listen to his songs?” Dean asks me, setting his fork down.
I avoid answering because the truth is I haven’t brought myself to listen to much of any of Andy’s music since he’s died.
I can’t put my finger on any reason in particular why I haven’t listened, but it mostly all boils down to the fact I don’t want to become like his rabid fans online—constantly mourning.
“Why are you asking so much about Andy?”
“He was a big part of you,” Dean replies. “I want to understand more about why you are the way you are.”
“Yes. He was, for a time,” I contemplate it. “He was a big part of me. He gets smaller every day.”
“Are you still in love with him?” Dean asks.
“No. It’s hard to be in love with a dead man. What does it matter to you anyway?” I put up a brick wall. I’m at a loss of what to think of Dean. Who is this man, trying to get to know me after barely putting up with me?
“I’m developing a soft spot for you,” Dean laughs, and I suddenly am developing my own soft spot for him and oddly enough, I don’t feel guilty about it.
“I think that’s the wine talking,” I laugh.
“Why are you doing this?” Dean leans in and whispers to me. “Why this road trip? Why now?”
“It was because of you,” I whisper back. “You said, ‘Go do something with your pathetic fucking life.’ and I felt the undeniable need to redeem myself. No one talks to me like that. Only I can talk to myself like that.” At least I’m self-aware.
“I didn’t curse at you,” Dean corrects me. His black sweater makes his eyes look even darker than they are and his dark hair looks almost as black as his sweater. It’s all on his eyes and his smile to light up his face, and boy, do they ever.
“No. But it felt like you meant to,” I give a small, humble laugh.
“I was having a bad day,” Dean apologizes.
“Let me ask you a question,” I say. “It’s my turn now.” I need to know more about this mysterious creature sipping wine in front of me and why he’s suddenly less of a grump. I need to know why his clock ticks.
“No.” Dean takes a sip from his glass to hide his grin. I want to kiss it right off his face, and that thought startles me to my core. Not for the fact that I want to kiss someone other than Andy, but that I want to kiss this man in particular.
“Why were you having a bad day?” I ask.
“My mother called and asked what time I’ll be home, because my ‘girlfriend’ will be here.” He does finger quotes around the word girlfriend.
“Oh?” I ask. “You have a girlfriend?”
“I broke it off with her two months ago,” Dean acknowledges. He doesn’t seem sad or angry about it, but instead seems content. He says it in a way that makes it seem like he just paid a bill or made a dentist appointment or crossed an item off his to-do list. “My mother doesn’t know.”
“What was wrong with her?” I laugh.
“I didn’t like her that much. She was a fucking florist.” Dean admits.
“So, you’re going to take me to see your mother instead?” I laugh. “You’re the unhinged one.”
“I love a good project.” Dean winks, because maybe he’s trying to be playful, but I can’t help but feel a little patronized.
“Am I your charity case?” I ask him, downing the rest of my glass as our dinner arrives. I ask for a glass of water next. This piece of shit. He’s only doing this because he feels bad for me. He wants to fix me.
“No. You’re coming, like, as my friend.”
“So, we’re friends now?” I don’t believe him, not even for a second. I regret wanting to kiss him, and the fact I still do. Asswipe.
“Something like that.” Dean cuts into his steak and takes a bite. “You’re my navigator.”
“I am hardly your navigator. You have that stupid GPS app or whatever it is.”
“It’s google maps.” He corrects. He’s always smiling when he corrects me.
“You’re being an—” I’m interrupted when I hear a familiar melody coming from the stage. It’s one I haven’t heard in a long, long time. At least five years. I crane my head towards the stage, my eyes fixed on the woman holding the microphone, while a man cheers for her at the foot of the stage.
The whiplash from thinking that Dean is handsome and wanting to kiss him to hearing this song practically gives me bruises and throws me back against the wall. I’d know that piano intro anywhere, from the dead of the night to the middle of the morning.
It’s one of Andy’s songs.